


Sober thoughts

by 37h4n0l



Category: B: The Beginning (Anime)
Genre: Alcohol, I really dont know what else to tag, M/M, no porn this time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 13:47:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14426688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/37h4n0l/pseuds/37h4n0l
Summary: The one occasion when Laica decides to get drunk.





	Sober thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> *places this on the Minatsukicest Mafia's desk*  
> h.  
> *leaves to go to sleep*

Laica doesn’t drink, usually. Not a lot at the very least. He has an inner impediment for it, and as soon as he realizes the taste is invading his nostrils too much and his movements grow too bold, he stops. Nobody would be monitoring if it wasn’t him, nobody would be keeping Kamui in check, making sure Yuna doesn’t escape for any reason or that Minatsuki doesn’t  _ murder _ anyone. (He absolutely would otherwise.) Laica doesn’t drink because he’s irritated by the stench and the decadence, by the sickness and all those physical signs his body uses to demonstrate that the substance he’s ingesting shouldn’t be ingested. He deems himself higher than that, maybe. He has plans and variables to control. He doesn’t drink; he  _ can’t _ .

 

That’s more or less what he keeps repeating to himself as his head almost hits the counter.

 

Someone’s laughing in the background and the sound is intermingling with the bartender’s wet rag rubbing against a glass he’s apparently cleaning; Laica’s eyes are too mesmerized by the process to check who it is. What does it matter anyway, they’re reggies. They might die in a few days and there’s no reason he should care about what they think, no, they’re puppets whose opinion on him doesn’t matter either in regards to the plan or the fact that he’s not entirely sober.  _ Tipsy _ , euphemistically speaking. The piece of fabric slows down and the glass is placed on the shelf behind. Laica feels kind of disappointed. 

 

He sags a little, bored and sleepy; this shouldn’t be the purpose of alcohol. If he’s already doing this, he’d at least expect it to be entertaining, but it’s not. The rest of the crew either isn’t around or constitutes utterly unappealing company — he can hear, for instance, that Kamui is talking about something to two other reggies, and that he’s drunk too because his hands accidentally hit the table he’s sitting at as he gesticulates. It actually draws a chuckle out of Laica, which then makes him puzzled by himself. Observing them is perhaps better than talking to them, even though it’s the same thing he does all the time, stand in the corner and watch without involvement. It takes sacrifice to be a mastermind. Some analogy comes to mind about the conductor not having the privilege to play an instrument, but he can’t make it sound good to himself no matter what. Minatsuki could, probably. It sounds like something he would say. Laica adjusts his hat — it has slipped off halfway — and snorts at how ridiculously pretentious Minatsuki is. He’s being ridiculously pretentious  _ somewhere else _ , it seems, since he’s not present.

 

It’s a place they rented, an entire wing of a hotel along with this bar, on the top floor. It  _ was _ expensive as all hell, but one can’t reason with a 40-person group of reggies well over adulthood, the ones that tagged along with them for the current project. They’re creatures driven by irrational need, one more reason why Laica looks at them with contempt. No, that’s not the right word, he corrects himself as his eye travels to three of them chatting at a table to his left; it’s rather like looking at small animals, some of which have a charm to them while others are plain disgusting. They range between endearing and pathetic. The bartender, too, is one of them, no matter how naturally he’s polishing the fifth glass by now, making the gimmick too old to be entertaining even for Laica’s drunken self. They made sure to have only reggies in the area, because that’s the only way for them to have fun freely. A regular person would leak information about them and get killed; or worse, if Kamui got his hands on them. This way they can punch around each other’s hyper-resistant bodies and be content with themselves. Laica sighs with an air of superiority.

 

He decides he likes the feeling of coldly regarding his kingdom, so he turns around on the stool to take a look at the group behind him, some faces in the crowd more familiar than others. The twins jump to the eye — what are they doing here? They’re not old enough for this. If Laica was really interested in maintaining the ‘reputable big brother’ image he built himself in the organization, he’d drag them to their room and lock them inside. Then again, maybe talking to  _ anyone _ in this state would embarrass him more than not intervening. He lets it be and relaxes, reaching towards the counter now at his back with both elbows to lean against it; except it’s a bit farther than he thinks and he has to swallow the hard truth that the miscalculation of a few centimetres of distance isn’t beyond kings. It’s even more striking, as a notion, when Laica comes to the realization he’s sitting on the floor for some reason and there’s a dull ache in his limbs.

 

There it is again, somebody laughing at him. He starts to admit it to himself that it’s bothersome, that it’s really,  _ really _ irritating and he should inform the person, whoever it is, about this mood of his. It feels too tiring to move for a few moments and he stares at people’s legs at eye level limply. His forces then come back to him and he stands up, wobbling a little, gaze roaming the room to figure out who’s making fun of him. The faces blur together in a mesh of recognizable traits and unknown ones in the green-ish lighting and he feels the taste of liquor coming back to his mouth — he’s not vomiting, not yet, but it’s imminent. There’s nobody around that voice could belong to. Why does this issue feel so particularly annoying? Alcohol really does turn people into idiots, even the best of them. And why is it so goddamn dark? Laica wants to blame it on something that isn’t the sunglasses he’s wearing indoors. 

 

“Funny, huh?” He’s standing before the table Kukuri and Takeru are sitting  _ on  _ just a moment later, arms crossed, fully aware that he’s doing something unreasonable by initiating conflict.

 

“What?” They ask almost in unison, tilting their heads.

 

“Stop mocking people and go to sleep.”

 

“We weren’t mocking anyone” Kukuri raises an eyebrow.

 

“Who on earth was laughing then?”

 

“Nobody,” it’s Takeru replying this time, the seams of both their mouths turning upwards in a concealed giggle, “did you drink so much you started hallucinating?”

 

Laica grits his teeth and turns away in silence in an attempt at keeping the anger down — it’s harder now than usual. The twins decide to ignore him, conversing while dangling their dainty legs as if he weren’t there.

 

“I’ve never seen Laica drunk.”

 

“It seems he gets all touchy, doesn’t he?”

 

“It’s a funny thing for a change.”

 

“Didn’t he fall just a moment ago?”

 

“I think he did. If I saw it close-up I would’ve laughed too.”

 

“I really didn’t hear anyone though, it’s Kamui yelling at best.”

 

“Yep. These people are no fun, are they?”

 

“You’re right, Izanami was the only one with a sense of humour.”

 

He leaves Kukuri and Takeru there as his vision blanks out for a few seconds from the dull headache. The bar starts to feel oppressive with the constant background noise and the suffocating smell of cheap cigarette smoke. Laica staggers with a few steps towards the exit that leads to the hotel corridor. Intolerance towards lowlife reggies, bitterness and inhibited rage — it’s all becoming overwhelming, even the lights look  _ off _ somehow. He hears the same vibrant laughter as before but now from farther away, from some place he can’t locate. The series of numbered doors seems endless, as if he’s never going to reach the ones at the end labelled between 521 and 530, the ones assigned to them. He does, miraculously, forced to lean against the wall  _ only _ two or three times from the loss of balance. He palpates his own head and face to make sure the hat and the shades are still on, suddenly overcome with a sense of worry about having lost them. Laica pushes down the handle tentatively and the door opens.

 

The first noticeable thing is the enormous window occupying an entire side, one of the luxury features of this department. There’s enough illumination provided by the view of the city outside for the lights to remain turned off, the faint blue glow casts spots on the long, semicircular leather sofa positioned in front of it. Every other wall is painted a stylish light grey and there’s a gallery too, stairs and floor made entirely of glass with a king-size bed on top. Posh furniture is interspersed throughout. It’s a sophisticated room — not Laica’s, though. He wonders if he was genuinely distracted or he didn’t notice on purpose as he throws himself down on the sofa in a position way too raffish in comparison to his surroundings but which is the best he can manage as disgracefully drunk as he is. He takes the hat off for a change and runs a hand through his sweat-drenched hair.

 

“Anything to refer?”

 

Laica jumps a little at Minatsuki stepping out of the shadows like a cryptid. He doesn’t reply with anything but a low growl, but among the two of them it’s understood that it means no.

 

“You sure feel like home, just walking in like this...” he continues, approaching the window as well, “Not that I mind.” 

 

Minatsuki does that small, reserved smile, and he looks so pompous like that, lights reflecting on his face, his exaggeratedly well-kempt hair and the wine glass Laica now notices in his hand, so smug and polite it’s angering. He doesn’t have his jacket and waistcoat on, just a shirt and that stupid-looking tie that he somehow manages to make not so stupid-looking. Laica barely shifts in his sitting position, enjoying the privilege of his eyes not being visible — they would reveal his fluctuating states of mind easily.

 

“Are you here for any reason in particular?”

 

“Not really,” he speaks, finally, voice going hoarse, “I guess I felt like it.”

 

Minatsuki takes a sip from the glass as his long lashes flutter shut.

 

“I see, I feel honoured then.”

 

Something within Laica is screaming ‘You damn well should’ but instead of indulging in thoughts about his impending world domination he decides to follow up to his latest statement, ignoring the logical structure of the conversation. It might bother Minatsuki, that’s a positive prospect.

 

“Or, rather, I felt like being with the others even less. I couldn’t bear them.”

 

“Ah? It isn’t like you to talk of them this way, I’m too used to you being reverent about it.” Minatsuki puts the now empty glass down on the coffee table, lets out a well-mannered chuckle and runs his gaze down the other as if to evaluate him. “Were you drinking?”

 

“Not ‘cause of that.” It comes to Laica’s notice now that he’s biting on his own words and not giving a good impression of soberness.

 

“So they just surpassed your tolerance?” A sigh. “I’m glad I’m not the only one who feels that way sometimes.”

 

He wants to yell at Minatsuki, let him know that the people who piss him off in this moment  _ includes _ him, kick up a fuss; if he had the energies. Laica isn’t sure, in fact, why he came here. (It  _ was  _ intentional, he’s too tired to deny it to himself.) There isn’t a single thing about this room or its owner that doesn’t viscerally irritate him with the snobbism and the  _ obliviousness _ . A distinct sensation pulls him back to reality. For how long has Minatsuki been straddling his lap? He wouldn’t be able to tell.

 

“I don’t mean to bug you about it, but are you  _ absolutely sure _ you didn’t come here for anything specific, Laica?”

 

He still looks so sure of himself, tracing his jaw with those slender fingers he usually keeps under gloves; they’re off now, one could catch a glimpse of the phosphorescent tattoo on his palm. They tangle in Laica’s choppy locks a moment later, with slow strokes that give the illusion he’d be content just petting him like that, even though that’s clearly never the case with Minatsuki. The other relaxes a little — maybe habitually — but leaves the question unanswered and his posture still. 

 

“What did they do to piss you off this badly?” Minatsuki laughs.

 

“Well, nothing.” Laica replies with clearer words this time, turns towards his face looking down at him from under the curtain of hair that’s obfuscating his view from both sides. “They didn’t do anything. They’re happy, calm and entertained. Not a care in the world.”

 

“It’s the way they are” Minatsuki says softly, as if he’s still not aware that he’s part of the category. Laica’s face would be unconvinced and impatient if his eyes weren’t covered — now it’s just enigmatic. The reggie shuffles in his lap and leans down, face closer to his and hand resting on his shoulder.

 

“Don’t fault them for acting silly.” He continues. “This kind of life isn’t easy on everyone, they don’t all have your level of stress resistance.”

 

It’s so very deeply ironic. It’s ironic from the angle that Minatsuki shouldn’t be so quick to talk when he’s the one who loses his temper the easiest, who goes on sadistic rampages out of anger, snuffing the life out of any living thing he finds with his pretty, graceful-looking hands. He’s corroding under the polished surface. But it’s also ironic because Laica feels like he, himself is about to go over the limit. It takes a lot not to grab Minatsuki by the shirt collar as he’s being so ignorantly affectionate, even attempting to flatter him. 

 

“Just take your mind off of things like they have. If drinking didn’t help enough, there are other things to-”

 

“Izanami is fucking dead!”

 

The few seconds of silence in the hotel room are like a weight tossed on the ground. 

 

Lights shift outside the window and there are voices conversing in the corridor; both phenomena moving on without care, independently from this scenario. Laica becomes hyperaware of his own breathing and the sudden tension in his facial muscles, as if the proper expression is lost on him after keeping up a poker face for too long. He’s half-sober at this point, not enough for his liking. Meanwhile Minatsuki is frozen, probably couldn’t see any of it coming, which isn’t a surprise. The type of shock he’s exhibiting is, perhaps. If Laica didn’t know any better, he’d say he looks almost remorseful. 

 

He doesn’t want to believe there’s something sad in how Minatsuki reaches for his sunglasses — it’s how it appears, but it’s just exploiting a moment of weakness to peer at how Laica’s eyes might be slightly wet underneath.

 

“I was wrong,” he says with his usual feigned gentleness, which, on second thought, is more pleasant than it would be if he snapped back, “this is a lot like you, after all. To care so much.”

 

And Laica could contradict him on that, or at least explain to him that he  _ shouldn’t _ care and that he’ll stifle down that part of himself too, the one that does. He’ll reprogram his own mind appropriately. In fact, he’s sure he wouldn’t care if Minatsuki died, because he’s  _ supposed to _ , unlike Izanami, who wasn’t. More unpredictability thrown into the mix, among which Laica’s own attitude about it.

 

He could explain all of this to Minatsuki, but instead he chooses to kiss him intensively and with a lot of indignation. Laica’s hands move onto his waist in a consensus he’s resigned himself to, pulling out the tucked-in hem of his shirt to reach underneath it. His mouth gets sloppy against Minatsuki’s pretty quickly, the other pulls away to catch his breath.

 

“You really didn’t hold back,” he scowls sardonically, “it’s like drinking straight from the bottle.”

 

“Now you know how I feel every time.”

 

“Alcohol makes you rude, too. I don’t like it.” Minatsuki pouts playfully, something he wouldn’t do outside of these situations.

 

“You’re naïve if you think I’ve been rude so far.”

 

Laica can hear him chuckle briefly as he catches the skin of his neck between his teeth, right next to his throat; it’s a quiet laughter and meant more for seduction than as an expression of happiness, but in all its vice it’s very much  _ alive _ . Just like Minatsuki, arching his back when his fingers roam higher on it; his weight, his body temperature, his sounds, and his movements all substantiate the fact that he  _ lives _ . He’s undeniably present as he grips onto Laica’s shoulders more firmly and lets his tie be loosened with a complacent smirk. It feels reassuring in a way that’s hard to explain.

 

Then again, maybe it’s just the liquor.

**Author's Note:**

> I call this genre semi-comical with surprise angst... There are things in my fics that go unsaid very often (because I love writing without *actually writing* I guess) so I always worry they don't come through. And, I mean, I could've made it devolve into porn, in fact maybe I will at one point, it's just late night now. But the crux of it is; I noticed Real Minatsuki shows concern for companions dying *several times*, which is odd and makes me wonder if he meant any of it at all. And if he did, I can't fathom him really not caring about Izanami's death considering they grew up together. My writing is fucking weird but this is my way of doing anything, lads.


End file.
